


Dancing Hands

by FeathersMcStrange



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Autism, Autistic Character, Autistic!Chase, Episode Related, Episode: s03e04 Lines in the Sand, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:11:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeathersMcStrange/pseuds/FeathersMcStrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They kept talking about him like that, like the boy wasn’t all the way human. He wondered how they would talk about him if they knew. If his ‘functioning level’ (god he hated that ridiculous concept) made him worthy of being treated like a person, or if the disability in and of itself would render him subpar in their eyes. But none of that mattered really because they weren’t just talking about this boy, they were talking about him, and about all of them and he refused to sit there and listen to it any longer. </p><p>Chase stood up.</p><p>...</p><p>In which the author is horrified by the handling of an autistic character, the thoughts 'someone should have said something' and 'what if autistic!Chase' collide, and the author has Personal Feelings about the subject matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Because because for some reason little ol autistic me decided it was a good idea to watch that season 3 ep Lines In The Sand and I couldn’t stop thinking about how all I wanted was for Chase (the only one not making horrible comments about the autistic boy, Adam) to do something cause he seemed uncomfortable and and then I thought ‘what if autistic Chase’ and then I thought ‘yES’ and this happened whoops. The only warning I have is mild language? 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (some of House’s lines are taken directly from the episode)
> 
> (it is strongly and clearly implied that Chase is self diagnosed and if you have a problem with self diagnosis or think it is somehow invalid you can screw right off immediately and save us both a lot of trouble)

Chase’s hand twitched in his lap and he focused every ounce of energy he had on stilling it, on not losing control and letting his fingers dance and weave like they so badly wanted to. But he had to keep control. Keep still. So he concentrated and didn’t move and tried to rise above it all.

Yet the comments kept on coming. He’d heard Cameron repeat that sentence from the house ‘no one would choose this’ and it kept replaying in his head over and over ‘no one would choose this no one would choose this who would choose this no one would want this’ and it hurt. Scalpels right to his core.

By this point he should be used to it, to be honest, it wasn’t as if his colleagues had a reputation for sensitivity, but he had expected more from Cameron at the very least. Then again she would be the type to sympathize with the ‘poor families’. As if the people  _burdened_ with having to  _put up with_  having an autistic kid were the real ‘victims’ of the situation. The poor families.

He snorted under his breath, causing the others to look over at him for a second. With his hand on the couch beside him so the others couldn’t see, Chase slipped his watch up around his hand, running his fingers over the bumps on the band, sliding them back and forth in a systematic, rhythmic pattern. 

Rattling out ideas, following patterns, logical conclusions. He could do that. Don’t get involved in what they’re saying. Don’t pay attention. Don’t take it personally. Just last through this case. Statistically of course they would probably encounter another autistic patient, but he’d get through that too.

He always did. Sitting in school hearing kids throw around the r-word, call people crazy, imitate Brigit Embry who never looked people in the eye and hardly spoke. He got through it and he never said a word to anyone. Chase trained himself not to rock in public, not to repeat words, to hide his hands under a table and wear headphones that blocked out noise. Little things. Wore sweaters that were soft and snug, heavy shoes that made a nice clicking thump noise when he walked. All that work so he could pretend to be what they wanted him to be. He couldn’t have it ruined now.

Wilson’s office was nice. It was quiet and there were no yelling people or harsh voiced angry men around when he was in a bad place with sensory input. Of course, Wilson had probably guessed. There was no diagnosis in Chase’s file, but James Wilson was a people person, and intuitive. If he had figured it out, he hadn’t said anything, and Chase was grateful.

Right now though, Wilson’s office felt less like a haven and more like a hunting ground. His colleagues’ voices barraged his ears and Chase cringed. House was on a roll now, just like usual, except this time it  _wasn’t_  like usual, this time every word felt like a punch to the solar plexus.

“Unfortunately their kid is nothing you’d want.”

_Punch._

"Then it’s downhill, some hills steeper than others."

_Punch._

“But this kid, he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t hug them, he doesn’t laugh.”

_Punch._

“His parents get nothing, the right to brag that their kid picked orange juice out of a line-up.”

_Punch._

_Snap._

They kept talking about him like that, like the boy wasn’t all the way human. He wondered how they would talk about him if they knew. If his ‘functioning level’ (god he hated that ridiculous concept) made him worthy of being treated like a person, or if the disability in and of itself would render him subpar in their eyes. But none of that mattered really because they weren’t just talking about this boy, they were talking about him, and about all of them, and he refused to sit there and listen to it any longer.

Chase stood up.

All eyes were suddenly on him. Foreman’s comment was lost in the roar in his ears, blood rushing in and out. It was a comforting sound, easy to get lost in. Not now though. Now everyone was staring at him and oh god he needed to get out get away.

"What is it? Finally have a useful thought? Some sort of breakthrough?" House’s abrasive voice sliced through the dead silence that had fallen when he jumped abruptly to his feet. Owlishly, Chase stared at him, wide eyed and breathing in small, shallow inhales. An overwhelming anger bubbled inside him, peaking at what the man said next. "Are you planning on sharing with the class, or do I need to get you Adam’s velcro communication folder?"

“ _Stop it_.”

Again, dead silence. Even House seemed taken aback.

"Who replaced your cereal with sawdust? What’s the matter with you? We gonna diagnose this kid or are you gonna just stand there and stare at me?"

"I’m  _autistic_  you  _asshole.”_

This time House didn’t have a snappy reply. No, for the first time he could remember, Greg House was stunned to silence.

"And I shouldn’t have to tell you that to make you  _stop_. Stop doing that, stop talking about him like he’s less of a person, like he’s damaged, ruined, wrong. Just _shut up_.”

The roaring whoosh in his ears got louder, and Chase made a split second decision, flinging the door open and storming out of it. Behind him the polish wood slamming shut sounded like a gunshot to everyone still in the silent office. He didn’t hear that though, focused instead on moving his feet one after the other, swiftly headed towards somewhere, anywhere where it would be quiet and safe and away.

As he walked down the hallway, voices a buzz behind his heartbeat, his hands waved in wild patterns. This time he didn’t stop them.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a line, tell me your thoughts. Thanks for reading! xx


End file.
